


Coming Home for...

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Detroit Secret Santa 2019, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: After the peaceful revolution, Markus decides to return to the place he effectively grew up, just in time for Christmas. Unsure of whether he has a right to be there, if he would be welcome or turned away, he finds himself welcomed with open arms.It's a story about belonging, and reconciliation, and family.For @squarecoco, whose prompt was "Markus and Carl stay together". I hope this fits the bill well enough. :) Merry Christmas!
Relationships: Carl Manfred & Markus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	Coming Home for...

* * *

As human holidays went, it seemed Christmas was not only the most universally beloved but simultaneously the most loathed of them all, with Thanksgiving not far behind. Families came together whether they wanted or not, to eat too much food, drink too much alcohol, and fight. By the end of the year, people were overworked, stressed to the point of breaking, and when December started tallying up the days leading to that day of legends and miracles, everything had to be perfect, or there simply wouldn’t be Christmas at all. But, of course, things were never quite so simple as the movie industry would have it. It seemed every movie ever made about the holidays had an element of strife thrown in for dramatic effect, just to showcase How People Are and/or Should Be.

Things were never that easy. For Markus, it was a mixed bag of a holiday: his mind palace filled with quietly luminous moments spent with Carl as he evolved - but it wasn’t reserved to this time of year. Over the years, they had grown close, with Carl taking on a more parental role. The more apparent it was Markus wanted to learn, the more willing Carl was to teach him, until they more closely resembled father and child than owner and robot. They both knew what they were, but the older Markus got, the more it seemed Carl saw something... _other_ in him than what he was made to be. They discussed politics, philosophy, science, history, literature - the latter more than anything over the holidays. Carl’s mind turned to the full catalogue of Dickens, although _A Christmas Carol_ tended to be front and center on most occasions. Every year the house would be filled with candlelights and big, red bows (and every ornamental cranium in the place festively adorned with Santa hats), the studio festooned with string lights.

It was painfully obvious that Carl had read the story to his son, Leo, when he was a child, but they rarely spoke of him in any terms other than the son with whom Carl had a distant, strained relationship. Most of the time, their relationship could be boiled down to Leo wanting something, and Carl obliging him. Markus remembered the last time Carl had denied his son with discomfiting clarity. It seemed a lifetime ago since that night, when Carl and he came home after an evening of schmoozers (Carl’s word, not his) wanting to make nice with him, only to find Leo rifling through his unfinished paintings and sketches. His life changed that night, and the strange thing was, he couldn’t quite figure out if it was for the better.

Two months ago, he could never have imagined what he’d go through - Leo blaming Carl’s heart attack on him, the cop shooting him right between the eyes… Rising from the dead, looking for answers, looking for revenge, feeling too many things at once, and not enough clarity of thought to think things through before throwing himself into leading thousands of androids into a revolution that was supposed to be peaceful.

So many had died already, even with that small victory, back in November. There was a cease-fire in effect, the President wanted CyberLife androids evaluated as a new species, and they had well and truly swayed public opinion in their favor. But for how long? At what cost?

49 days was all it took to lead an arguably successful revolution, become an international celebrity forced into seclusion by the ubiquitous human media, and for the whole thing to finally catch up with you on a purely visceral level. As he stood at the garden wall outside the Manfred residence, he still didn’t know how to feel about everything. He’d been here once, since he left, but if anything he’d felt only more troubled in the days that followed.

Carl was still unwell, he knew from his caretaker (who had agreed to keep him updated on Carl’s status), but he was looking into nanotherapy, and it seemed to be improving his overall wellbeing. He was no longer bedridden, but he was kept under strict monitoring at all hours, and as happy about it as he ever was - which is to say he was never a bad patient, but he didn’t like all the fuss.

Suddenly he felt very undecided - perhaps he wasn’t welcome here anymore. Perhaps, now that Carl and his son were making strides towards mending their relationship, his presence would be unwanted. As he stood there, consumed by his own doubts, Carl’s caretaker came through the glass doors and walked down the path towards him. Markus almost thought he’d be asked to leave, but of course he was wrong. He should know by now not to be ruled by his own misgivings.

“Mr Manfred would like to invite you in. Get you out of the cold,” said the AP700 through a cautious smile. He seemed virtually unchanged since the first time they met, still reservedly dedicated to his original function. He ducked his head. “I wouldn’t want to repeat the actual phrasing he used.”

Markus returned the smile with something closely resembling mirth. “He can be blunt,” he said, and they both agreed without words to leave anything more detailed unspoken. Carl tended to speak his mind, and he didn’t care one bit about what was the politically correct thing trending at any given time.

Once out of the cold, customarily welcomed home by the security system AI, Markus left his coat on the rack by the front door. It felt...strange - even more so than last time: he felt even more a stranger in his old home. He’d lived here since the day he was activated - but that too felt like a lifetime ago. He supposed everything was relative (and relatively ambiguous), if you were an android: even homesickness. Fear and hope mingling at the forefront of his mind palace - would this year’s topic of literary discussion be George Orwell’s disturbingly foresighted _1984_?

“There you are!” Carl rasped in his weathered old voice, characterized by too much experience and too many large whiskeys to wash it all down. He was wheeled into the foyer by none other than his son, whose actions had catapulted them all into a strange new future. Carl was a picture of delight; Leo was more difficult to read.

“Let me guess,” said Markus, stepping closer, and close enough for Carl to squeeze his hand. “You were worried I’d stay out there long enough for my circuitry to freeze?”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you! Freezing your _ass off_ out there in the snow. Come in, it’s nice and warm in here. Come on.”

Carl waved him into the house, and Leo greeted him with an awkward little nod, leading Markus to think maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling unsure about his decision to sneak back home unannounced. The living room was just like he remembered it - decked out like something out of a Victorian Christmas saga.

“What do you think? Is it tacky enough yet?” Carl splayed his hands out at the vista that was his massive living room. Even the giraffe had a santa hat, jauntily askew between its horns. 

“I wouldn’t call it tacky,” said Markus, feeling himself falling into old behavioural patterns despite everything that had happened. It was an experience he’d never expected to live through, but heard of many times before. People, humans, returning home after some time, only to find themselves reverting to the person they were before. Personal growth and experience didn’t seem to mean a thing, when surrounded by the walls of his former home. “I mean--”

“Yes?” asked Carl, expectant, looking up at him with those crisp, keen eyes of his. In some ways, he was like a little boy, expecting a good answer from his most trusted confidante.

Markus tilted his head sideways, choosing his words. “I’d call it magnificent. In a garish...kind of way.”

“Ostentatious?” Carl suggested.

“On the side of vulgar,” Markus agreed; Carl patted his hand, face split with a toothache sort of smile.

“Just the way I like it. Come, sit, talk to me.”

***

He’d told North about his past life, saying he’d been living in a bubble of contentment: that he was happy, and blissfully ignorant of the state of the world. Sitting on the couch with the smell of seasonal cooking and coffee triggering his olfactory receptors, and the fireplace alive with warmth and light and soft crackling noises, Markus could remember exactly what that felt like. It was easy to be happy here, even when Carl was at his most cantankerous, or his most cynical. The house itself would always remind him of light and growth and learning, and he couldn’t quite believe just how long he’d stayed here. Years and years, and everything changed in one fateful week. It seemed like an endless string of coincidences - but as he’d learned from Connor after November 11, there was more to it than that. They were both RK models, with similar features. Both of them had played key roles in the revolution, which had set the gears of his mind turning. Maybe that’s why he was here, now. He wanted to know about his origins.

Markus leaned forward, clasping his fingers between his knees, and felt a strange spark somewhere deep inside. He was almost afraid to ask, not entirely prepared for the answer. “You never told me about Kamski.”

Carl leveled him with a piercing look that told him the old man may be old and frail of body, but age had nothing to do with clarity of mind. He was as sharp as ever: only fatigued. “That’s right. You never asked,” he countered, but not in an unkind way. It seemed they were both unsure exactly where that hovering, intangible question mark came from. It hung suspended in the air between them, ominous and heavy like rain clouds. Leo watched them from across the room, but made himself scarce when he saw Markus looking his way.

“I met another RK unit. He met Kamski, and his impression is…”

“That he’s a pompous jackass with too much money and time on his hands?” Carl remarked, dry and brittle as kindle for the fire.

Markus blinked. “In a manner of speaking. We can’t quite figure out why we were both created. I’m a caretaker, he’s a criminal investigative model-- But we share several features. Did Kamski design both of us? Or did CyberLife take one of his designs and throw Connor together in a desperate attempt to thwart the ‘android uprising’?”

Quite unexpectedly, Carl’s thinning eyebrows hiked up his forehead, turning his blue eyes into little gems of sparkling amusement. “I see your inquisitive streak is still streaking. Does it matter what you were designed to do? Either of you? I’m assuming you’re talking about the so-called deviant ‘hunter’ I’ve heard so little about in the news. All hush hush, need to know, and yet the big channels make like they know all about it.”

Markus nodded his head sideways. Did it matter? “Did he expect us to deviate? Was I the backup plan in case Connor didn’t, or was he the backup? Connor thinks there’s a significant probability that Kamski implanted the virus in all androids.”

“But you’re saying the two of you are different?”

The question took him off guard. It seemed somehow arrogant, when put like that. “We are different. We’re the only two RK units in working condition. We’re unique.”

“I’d drink to that,” said Carl with a less spritely glint in his eye, his smile tempered by fondness and pride. “But it’s getting late. Tell you what, you stay the night, and we’ll talk more in the morning. You can make yourself at home. You’re safe here.”

As if on cue, Leo returned from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee. While Markus had always felt safe here, the last time he and Leo were in the same room together, his entire existence shattered into a million pieces. ‘Safe’ wasn’t the first word that came to mind now, and they both felt it. Even Carl’s son squirmed where he stood, picking up on the vibes - but just before it could deteriorate into even more awkward territory, Carl’s caregiver android intervened.

“Carl. You know what time it is.”

Just like that, Carl reverted into something like a curmudgeon. “Bother o’clock? I _know_ what time it is, I was just telling Markus it’s late.”

Markus and the caregiver shared knowing smiles. “He’s just scared I’ll resume my old duties, and then there’d be two of us bossing him around,” said Markus, suddenly thinking of something. “I didn’t ask your name. I’m sorry.”

“Florence,” said the android. “As in Nightingale. I picked it myself.”

***

Night descended on the Manfred household. Lights were turned down low, the fireplace burning as long as it would. Carl preferred an old-fashioned wood burning fireplace, like he’d grown up with. Looking at the way the flames reflected in the Christmas ornaments of the tree, Markus couldn’t fault him. The smells, the sounds, the warmth - it filled the house with a sense of comfort that Markus struggled to define. Leo was curled up on the couch, asleep with the help of prescription muscle relaxants. Upstairs, Carl was resting, tucked away in his inner sanctum of sketches and memorabilia and eccentricities. Florence, Markus supposed, was on standby in the room. Nearby, in case…

Maybe he was giving Kamski too much credit for his own so-called deviation. He could remember that night so clearly, how he didn’t feel any different at all. He was still the same, he still functioned the same, experienced emotion much the same, with the exception that he made his own choices. He couldn’t even remember a time when he didn’t _feel_ ...something. He’d always had opinions, just struggled with expressing them at times. He’d been _happy_ here for as long as he could remember.

Perhaps it was the environment that had changed him from factory standards into something else. Maybe it was Carl’s constant coaxing and prodding, encouraging him to think for himself, to stand up for himself. It was a nurturing environment - to such an extent that Carl’s caregiver had felt confident and secure enough to choose his own name. Not the name he was given, but something that resonated with him. And...it fit.

Maybe even the smallest choices stem from the things that came before. His mind pulled up images of the studio, of Carl insisting he paint, use his own imagination. Their chess games, his learning the piano, all of Carl’s books. Connor had all those things already programmed when he was activated - but Markus had had to learn so much over the years; Carl had been the best of teachers, even if he hadn’t signed up for that role. Suddenly, looking towards the studio doors, it occurred to him that they had both grown from sharing each other’s existence. In becoming a father figure to him, perhaps Carl had learned how to be a better dad to his son; Markus had learned compassion and forgiveness, and confidence - but looking through the studio doors of his mind palace’s memory storage, he knew he would never forget.

“I haven’t set foot in there since November,” came a raspy voice from behind. It was Leo, sluggishly rearranging himself into an upright position. Markus didn’t quite know what he meant by that. His mouth pulled to the side, and he turned sideways. At his sides, his hands clenched into fists, but he made them return to default position through sheer determination.

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to mean anything to me, Leo.”

“Well--” The young man shrugged, hands moving in the air right above his knees. His fingers danced with non-verbal attempts and communication. “Well, shit. Fuck. Look, I… I owe you an apology. No, like, make that a dozen. I’ve been a total shithead since, well, for years.”

Ever since Markus was delivered to Carl’s doorstep, yes, but Markus didn’t point that out. Leo was trying to make a point of his own, and Markus was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Go on.”

Leo sighed, running both hands over his head of messy, black hair. When he looked up, his face was a picture of awkward sincerity. It was a face Markus could honestly say he’d never seen. He looked like a completely different person. “I’m sorry I treated you like a piece of trash. Doesn’t matter if I was jealous of you, you know, how you and Dad talked and stuff. Doesn’t matter if I was high or drunk or whatever. That’s just an excuse. I’m not making excuses.”

“You’re saying you’d still have treated me like shit if you’d been sober?” Leo nodded; Markus crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re sober now. What’s so different about this time?”

He shook his head, resting his forearms atop his knees. Markus stayed put by the Christmas tree. For a little while, it seemed like Leo wouldn’t answer him (which would have been exactly what Markus would expect of him. In the past, he’d barely even acknowledged his presence except to be demeaning). But then he showed the palms of his hands, and said, simply, “Everything.”

Leo explained that after Carl nearly died, he’d had to reevaluate himself, his life, his actions. Before that night it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he could be different. He’d spent so long being selfish and spiteful that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be scared of losing someone he loved. For all their arguments and fights, for all the silence between them, he loved his father. He said he hadn’t even considered his own mortality until he saw Carl wheeled out of the house on a stretcher.

“And then...that week happened. Felt like I’d gone to sleep one night and woke up in a sci-fi warzone. That was a wakeup call. I realized I was a walking stereotype. Privileged white kid bitches and moans about his daddy issues, when there are sentient humanoids who don’t have any rights whatsoever? Fuck that.”

“So you had an epiphany,” Markus summarized. It was safe to say he knew that feeling. “Good for you.”

Leo gave a lopsided smile. Perhaps they would never be the best of friends for the baggage they shared, but this was a step in the right direction. “So… We good?”

“Apology accepted, even if it was the most roundabout one I’ve ever heard.”

***

Morning finally came, and though no one present for breakfast believed in Santa Claus anymore, breakfast was had and anecdotes were told, like little presents. Carl hadn’t ever been much for presents, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see this time of year as a season of giving. He passed on the wisdom of his years onto both his sons, the way he had done for Markus all these years: telling them about his misspent youth, his wilder days filled with all manner of decadence and frivolity. He told them not to repeat the mistakes he’d made, but to make entirely new ones of their own. To go out into the world and live, and get in trouble, and learn from the experience. Leo shared things about his past, both good and bad, often accidentally hilarious...in hindsight. Hallucinating that giant broccoli rabe were taking over the world could only ever be funny in hindsight, because it was positively _terrifying_ at the time.

Markus told them about his friends, in the Jericho community and otherwise - about its leaders, the key players of the revolution, the unexpected support coming from all directions of human society. Even Florence joined in, even if by comparison he’d led much briefer a life, and not quite so eventful - but he could tell a story with the best of them, of all the people he came across from day to day.

For a little while, they almost felt like the family they’d never had a chance to be. When it came time for Markus to leave, he hugged Carl for the first time in all the years he’d lived with him. Before he came here last night, he’d been afraid it was his last chance to spend Christmas with the only dad he’d ever really had. But now, feeling the strength in Carl’s hands clasping at his shoulder, the back of his neck, he realized there was a chance for more. More time, more holidays, more cautionary tales and encouragement - and though he technically didn’t want anything for Christmas, that was the best gift he could have asked for.

“...Dad?” He hesitated. It was only the second time he’d ever called Carl by that name.

“Yes, Markus?”

“Can I come back next year?”

“Next _year_?” Carl rasped out, close to chortling. He leaned back, both hands on Markus’ shoulders, and his eyes gleamed with gratitude. “I expect you here for New Year’s! Hell, bring your friends. Let’s see if we can’t keep the entire neighborhood up all night.”

Markus smiled, beaming like the sun. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

Maybe Christmas wasn’t just about the family you were born into, or the one you thought you should have, but the one you were handed over to by a reclusive genius with ego to spare. Or...the one you find along the way. After all, the one didn’t necessarily exclude the other.

The End


End file.
